


Breathe out, So I can breathe you in

by zanzibar



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the fact that everything is fucked up and he's in love with his best friend and said best friend is wandering around naked all the time - his life is still pretty great.  </p><p>In which Michael and Megan break-up and Michael accidentally moves to Florida</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe out, So I can breathe you in

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from Foo Fighters Everlong ~ a song that I would marry if I could.

It's not that there aren't warnings.

The problem with a long-term secret relationship is the unending scrutiny that comes when the secret is revealed. Everyone wants to know what they missed. And as a result the entire world becomes a detective.

What they find is this. A lot of instagram photos, tagged with silly hashtags and paired with the misty shade of the Valencia filter. And twitter mentions, there are a lot of twitter mentions. Michael can't help but be suspicious of twitter. All the good that seems to come of it is directly related to pictures of his friend's dogs and tropical vacations he wishes he was taking.

But Michael has this picture in his head, and maybe it's as shiny as any filter on Instagram. But this is it. He thinks a lot about someone to come home to, someone to travel with, and someone to laugh with. Someone who understands who he is and what makes him that person and loves him anyway. And maybe the revolving door of relationships in his life means it's too easy to slide her into that picture - but he does.

But still. Warnings.

Megan calls him her dear friend. It makes him feel like they're living in a Victorian novel.

His mom doesn't like her. That's probably overstating. His mom is lukewarm to her, and in Michael’s world any time his mom is lukewarm about anything he sits up and takes notice. So it feels like his mom doesn't like her.

Hilary doesn't like her. That's not overstating. Hilary stands in the corner and glares whenever they're in the same room. Hilary might, potentially, actually abhor her.

Whitney is indifferent. This is equivalently unexpected. He tries to believe that Hilary is rubbing off her. But nevertheless Whitney is normally either very, very hot or very, very cold, to have her respond to something with indifference, feels as weird as everything else.

No one says anything, but his family is his family, and they don't actually have to say anything for there to be a small novel full of words.

So the women in Michael's life give him a lot to think about.

After London her dad makes weird comments to the press about how she’s not a gold digger.

Schmitty accepts her at face value and they fall into an easy friendship that comforts him in the face of all the other weirdness.

Everyone is surprised at his ability to keep a secret.

Megan gets to wander around in a bikini [gold, natch] and all of a sudden shows up on gossip sites and has about three times as many twitter followers as she started out with. There's press and parties and red carpets and the aforementioned vacations to tropical locations. Dating an Olympian is awesome.

Retired Olympians are apparently not as awesome. There's no nearly as much press, the only carpet is the barely-walked on carpet in Michael’s barely-lived in condo and they can go to dinner without almost any interruption and play golf whenever they want.

In the end her belief seems to be that a former swimmer and a swimsuit model don't go together quite the same way a swimmer [greatest Olympian of all time] and a swimsuit model [cocktail waitress].

She dumps him.

He sits on his couch alone and drinks until his hands stop shaking. Reaches for the laptop and like an angry 12-year-old blocks her on every form of social media he can remember his password for and stumbles down the hall to sleeps spread-eagle in his bed for 27 hours. The next afternoon he pulls on his scrubbiest pair of track pants, a ragged Michigan t-shirt and his favorite Ravens hat, pulls 5 Rock Stars out of his fridge, loads the dogs into his truck and starts driving.

According to iTunes, his iPhone contains 1870 items, 9.30 gigabytes, which translates to 5 days of non-stop, non-repeated music. At the stoplight just before he gets on the freeway Michael buys the new Skrillex album, Dark Side of the Moon and Mumford and Sons, puts the whole thing on shuffle, plugs it in and sets the cruise control at 7 over.

 

  
* * *

Ryan's house is set back from the street and the driveway is empty except for Ryan's car, a mostly deflated basketball and a blue and orange foam football. Michael takes a minute to be thankful that the revolving door of Lochte friends and relatives is currently closed. As it is he's not sure how exactly to say "hey buddy, my pretty much secret girlfriend dumped me and I'm here to drown myself in your pool, you've been my best friend for close to 10 years and I know you won't ask too many questions," he can't imagine saying it with any sort of audience.

Ryan's sunbathing naked when Michael wanders out through the sliding glass door and into the staggering Florida humidity. The dogs run wild laps around the pool, barking and snapping at each other before collapsing in a heap in the shade against the house.

"Dude how did you get here," Ryan's shocked voice makes Michael smile for the first time in 4 days. He lowers his glasses and raises an eyebrow when Michael drops a towel over his bare ass and sinks down into the deck chair next to him.

"I'm retired; this is what retired people do. They come to Florida." Michael tucks a hand behind his head and lets the sun seep into his travel weary bones. "Plus TMZ told me you've dedicated yourself to racing people in crowded hotel pools while wearing clothes. So I figured I better get in on that action."

"I always knew you'd never have enough of racing me MP," Ryan grins and leans over the side of his chair to snag a pair of remarkably subdued black board shorts.

"Plus I figured if you weren't naked with some member of British royalty you'd probably be naked in your own backyard," Michael reaches a hand to slap at Ryan's ass while he pulls on his shorts.

"For real," Ryan wanders into the kitchen and returns with a bag of popcorn, a pitcher of what looks like lemonade and 2 plastic cups. He settles back in the chair on his back this time and continues, "And before you ask, yes, I am freakishly aware of how lucky I am that I didn't get invited to that particular after-party."

"I figured you were," Michael grinned, "and I figured that if you weren't Erica was making you completely aware of your bullet dodging ability."

"Both those things are true," Ryan admits, "and also my mama had a couple of things to say both about being aware of who's waving a camera phone around and also why there are certain situations where it isn't appropriate to take off your clothes."

They sit in silence and drink Crystal Light and crunch popcorn. When Ryan flips back onto his stomach Michael starts to think seriously about either falling asleep or going inside to take a shower. The weighty Florida humidity settles over him like a blanket, the silence of Ryan's residential street a welcome respite from days in the car and Ryan, his light, even breathing as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

"It's like 800 miles from Maryland to here dude," Ryan's voice is muffled by his arms and still a little baffled.

"That's only like 13 hours," Michael's voice is scratchy with exhaustion. He neglects to add that it's less when you drive all night and have a lifetime of experience walking the conscious line between speed and media disaster. "And when you drive there's no airport security and way less chance of having to deal with screaming children and reclining seats slamming into my shins."

"Don't lie MP," Ryan chuckles, "it's been years since you flew anywhere but First Class."

"I had to bring the dogs," Michael mutters helplessly.

Ryan hums tunelessly and closes his eyes.

Michael does fall asleep in the sun and wakes up sweaty and disoriented in the fading light of dusk. The deck chair next to him is empty, dishes cleared and across the patio Ryan is feeding the dogs out of a matching set of mixing bowls.

"You stick around long and we're going to have to buy fucking stock in Purina dude," Ryan looks up when he sits up and Michael grins weakly and cracks his ankles.

"I'm going to grab a shower," he knocks against Ryan's shoulder as he passes.

Despite everyone's suspicions Ryan's house isn't covered in bikini model posters or a total shithole. He has 3 large canvas prints of Athens, Beijing and London, a refrigerator door full of baby pictures and snapshots of family and friends and a cleaning lady who comes twice a month. There's no denying that it's a bachelor pad and for one truly memorable 3 weeks there was actually a bed in front of the TV in the den instead of a couch. But it's not some trashed out frat house either. His mom would never put up with that.

"Use mine," Ryan looks up from the dog bowls and gestures vaguely toward the back of the house, "there's already stuff in there and towels under the sink. Dev and Brand were here last weekend and so the guest bathroom is stripped of everything useful."

"Thanks," Michael's grin is maybe a little forced; he's starting to remember why he came here. Nothing waiting for him in the B-more anymore. The Olympics are over, he's retired, his mom's back at school, sister's are back at work, girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, back to modeling or waitressing or whatever it is people do after they stomp on Olympic-sized hearts.

No pool, no goal sheets, no girl, but Ryan uses the same shampoo that he does and his shower has a ton of water pressure and this insane massaging, rotating, pulsating showerhead thing that Michael thinks Ryan probably bought from some back-alley showerhead dealer, because that shit has got to be illegal.

Ryan has helpfully put a towel on the edge of the sink and moved Michael's duffel bag from next to the front door onto the bench at the foot of his bed and Michael digs through for a pair of mesh shorts and a soft grey t-shirt.

Downstairs Ryan's splitting some creepy-looking steamy bright green pasta into 2 bowls and the smell of garlic fills the kitchen.

"It's my mom's pesto," Ryan supplies helpfully sliding a beer across the island and digging through the silverware drawer. "But we're going to have to eat it with chopsticks, because my Lochte-sense wasn't tingling so I didn't run the dishwasher before you got here. So we're using the last 2 clean bowls and there's no clean silverware."

Michael's stomach growls and the dogs crowd around his feet and he really couldn't care less if he had to eat with his hands.

After dinner they slouch against each other on the soft leather of Ryan's couch and drink more beer while preseason football plays in the background.

"So what's really up," Michael looks up from the beer he's been tilting back and forth mesmerized by the shift of liquid against the amber bottle. Ryan quirks an eyebrow and waits. The beauty of Ryan as a best friend is that he's never going to force the truth out. He's just more patient than anyone else in Michael's life. So he'll just settle back and wait until Michael spills his entire guts in the face of all that nonchalance.

"She broke up with me," Michael tips his head against the back of the couch and pushes the words past the unexpected lump in his throat. He closes his eyes and tries not to remember the future he’d let himself imagine.

"Sucks," Michael can imagine the shrug that accompanies Ryan's words, can picture the concern on his face as he turns to face him.

"Yep," Michael's lips pop on the word and they sit silent next to each other until Sportscenter starts.

Sometime between the headlines and the Not Top Ten Michael drifts off again, not stirring until he feels the bottle pried from his hands.

"C'mon dude," a warm hand tries to pull him off the couch. "Sleeping on this couch is not worth it when you're over six feet tall, trust me on this."

He slams a shoulder into the wall, sleep stupid as he tries to convince his feet to navigate the complexities of stairs. He makes a move toward the guest room but behind him Ryan swears and guides him toward the master. "No sheets in there dude, we'll get it tomorrow."

Ryan's bed is big and soft and has about a hundred pillows and sheets that are blessedly cool against his face. The sounds of Ryan brushing his teeth are achingly familiar from years of shared hotel rooms and Michael starts to thank Ryan for being seriously the best best friend a guy could ask for, but he falls asleep before the words can leave his lips.

They take the dogs for a walk in the morning. Ryan's bed is a King and they started out a reasonable distance apart last night, but when Michael woke up this morning he had flipped onto his stomach and towards the center and Ryan was stretched on his side facing him, arms tucked under a pillow and one of his bony ankles stretched across the sheets to rest against Michael's equally bony ankle.

A lifetime of waking before the sun has them both out of bed before the heat of the Florida day tilts into completely unbearable. The dogs get leashed, Ryan takes his skateboard and Michael slides his feet into his flip flops. The street is deserted and Ryan does tricks on the curb while Michael wanders companionably behind.

They spend three days doing nothing but sitting in the sun, jumping in the pool when it gets hot and dozing away the late afternoon. When it's too hot they play Madden and stretch on opposite ends of the couch while the dogs loll on the cool tile.

They grill out every night. Ryan hasn't said anything else about Megan but dinner is always accompanied by some form of alcohol and Michael feels like he's coasting on a combination of sun-soaked relaxation and a mellow buzz that cushions him every night against the inevitable memory of why he’s here avoiding everything else.

Michael hasn't worn shoes in 3 days, he hasn't done anymore than hop in the shower to rinse off the sweat and chlorine either, but they aren't talking about that. He hasn't answered his phone in 3 days, he dropped a quick text to his mom and sister's that he made it to Gainesville and turned his phone off. He goes from the loose shorts he sleeps in to the still slightly damp board shorts he wears in the backyard, realistically speaking Michael hasn't worn underwear in 3 days, but they aren't actually talking about that either. Michael has been passing out every night in his best friends’ bed, but they’re really not talking about that.

On day 4 Ryan has to leave for some promo tour. He's the new Olympic darling and that comes with appearances on Jimmy Fallon and nerf wars and photo shoots and other things Michael does not miss thank you very much.

Michael stays because someone has to take care of the dogs.

He plays Halo, but the house feels empty when he's sitting alone on the couch. Walking 3 dogs is just about impossible because Carter wants to run ahead and Herman has to lumber behind and Stella wants to herd all the dogs and leashes aren't actually conducive to herding so it all ends up in a tangle and to get them home Michael has to let them all off their leashes and convince them to chase him back to the house.

The bed feels empty too. But after a week he's getting really good at not thinking about that.

It feels weird to drink alone, so he doesn't even have a beer the first night. And he lies on the couch and watches House Hunters International until 3 in the morning.

The next day he decides it doesn't feel quite as weird, when the options are drink and sleep or not drink and watch people on HGTV complain about closet size and paint colors.

Things spiral from there.

By day 9 Michael isn’t sure where his phone is. But it’s OK, he’s at least 80% sure it’s somewhere in the house and he's significantly more concerned with whether he can make it three days in a row of drinking 6 beers before noon. Ryan's been gone for 5 days. They have a system. Michael texts pictures of the dogs and makes sure to clear the beer bottles from the background and Ryan drunk texts him while Michael watches The Daily Show, not knowing where his phone is makes this system more challenging.

Ryan's in Chicago today, Michael's pretty sure. Michael's at Ryan's doing nothing and damn does it feel good to be a gangsta. Drinking, watching trashy TV on Ryan's DVR [it turns out that they gave one of the Jonas Brothers a TV show, Michael kind of can’t believe that shit, but he’s seen 2 episodes and is considering setting a season pass on the DVR] His head has ached dully for the past 4 days but usually he feels better after he's brushed his teeth and food tastes better when he has beer to go with it.

Michael loves Florida. He got up yesterday at 2 in the afternoon and went to the grocery store. He has a serious case of bedhead, hasn't shaved in a week and bought fudgesicles, 2 cases of beer and 40 pounds of dog food and the girl at the cash register didn't even blink. Break ups should always happen in college towns where there are no questions and no one gives a shit.

Ryan's supposed to be home tonight and Michael should probably find his phone to figure out if he's supposed to pick him up at the airport or something. Somehow he's still watching E News though, and because he's watching E News he gets to see his former girlfriend, what the fuck ever, responding to some fucking cameraman's question about where he is and when she says that they're both too busy to have a serious relationship right now. He decides that 6 beers before noon probably isn't going to cut it and he better start hunting for some tequila to go with his Whopper.

"Jesus Mike you stupid fucking bastard," Ryan's voice sounds like he's been swimming sprints, breathless and panicky in a way that he doesn't usually sound unless he's been going balls to the wall.

"Hey you're home," Michael's head feels like he's probably going to die and he's not entirely sure his fingers are on the right feet or hands or even actually attached to his body. He remembers quite a lot of tequila and throwing up in the bathroom downstairs and then crawling back to the cool leather of the couch on his face.

"I've been trying to wake you up for 10 minutes asshole," Ryan collapses back in the recliner and he's wearing these jeans, that someone probably told him to wear, that are fitted in a way that Ryan’s clothes normally aren’t and a white polo that makes his tan look even darker and Michael really wants to lick the strip of skin that appears between the waistband of his jeans and the hem of the polo when Ryan stretches an arm over his head.

And wow, that's new.

He's pretty sure it's the tequila talking but Ryan's lips keep moving and he really can't focus on anything except figuring out how the hell he could lick that warm skin and not get punched in the face. Based on the amount of candy he regularly consumes, Michael imagines that Ryan's skin probably tastes like Skittles.

"Hey, dude," Ryan's face is concerned and hovering over him again, and the strip of skin is gone and Michael's fingers twitch, because he wants that skin to come back. Now that he's seen it there's an unexpected merry go round of thought about running his tongue across all those acres of golden skin. "Dude," Ryan snaps in front of his face, "what is up with you."

And then the tequila starts talking. "There was E News, and she said there was no time, but what that really meant is that there was time when I was Olympian Michael and there were gold medals and she was an athlete's girlfriend. But now that I'm retired Michael there's no time anymore," Michael knows that sounds pitiful. But he's feeling pitiful. "And I can't understand why regular Michael isn’t worth it, he's not a bad dude, he has kinda whacky taste in music, but he remembers to buy groceries and puts the toilet seat down and feeds the dogs even when he’s hungover. And she called me her dear friend which is the most fucking stupid thing ever. I was her boyfriend and now I'm not. And then there was tequila." And really, he's pretty proud that he got all those sentences out and the words in the right order.

"OK buddy," Ryan helps him stand up, and tucks him under his arm when the room starts to spin, "when any Michael starts referring to himself in the third person he earns himself a trip straight upstairs to bed and a date with a big bottle of Gatorade."

"I threw up," Michael confesses on the stairs.

"That doesn't actually shock me," Ryan guides him past his suitcases, abandoned in the foyer and towards the giant bed in the master, and Michael loves this bar, and loves Ryan's giant bed and loves Ryan and loves bacon. But actually, maybe not bacon, at least not right now. "You can have extra Gatorade to counteract the puking."

"Tequila tastes better than Gatorade,"

"Dude, no one thinks that," Ryan tugs his shirt off and throws it in the corner with Michael's and then all of a sudden there's all that skin again and jeans that hang artfully off Ryan's sharp hips and Michael wonders what it would feel like to trace the outline of Ryan's stomach muscles with his tongue. In the bathroom he scrubs his tongue with his toothbrush, and considers the fact that his toothbrush lives next to Ryan's toothbrush on the counter and his razor shares a spot on the edge of the tub with Ryan's Gillette and he and Ryan's bodies migrate to the middle of the bed every night so their arms are pressed together or their hips are pressed together or their ankles are pressed together and that single grounding point of warm skin makes him sleep so much better. He wonders absently if this is all pretty fucked up.

But Ryan turns off the lights and turns on the ceiling fan and brings him strawberry Gatorade. And while he takes small sips and sags against the pillows Ryan takes off the magical jeans and pulls on one of the million pairs of mesh shorts they seem to have accumulated. He climbs in the other side of the bed and turns ESPNews on mute and Michael puts down the Gatorade bottle on the nightstand next to his watch and his headphones and rolls over toward Ryan. The familiar smell of Ryan's body settles his stomach and his mind and Michael presses his nose against Ryan's hip and tries not to think exceptionally gay thoughts. When Ryan reaches down and unconsciously scritches his fingers against the short hairs on the back of Michael's neck he passes out without a sound.

 

* * *

After the tequila incident [and resulting hangover] he doesn’t really leave Ryan’s house for much. He figures the reason he’s lying low is out there, for all the world to see, just the way he never wanted it to be. He picks up takeout and buys groceries and when Ryan’s home he tags along to the gym and does clean jerks and box jumps and as many crunches as Ryan [because he might be retired, but competitive spirit doesn’t just die on the medal stand] and runs on the treadmill while Ryan swims miles of sets and doesn't have a single stray thought about the pool thank you very much.

They come home after practice and make dinner together and walk the dogs in the lingering twilight and then play Halo until their eyes cross [which is often by 9 o'clock, but there's no reason to tell anyone that.]

Sometimes Michael makes comments about moving to the guest room, but he never follows through because Ryan shakes his head like he finds the idea irritating and more often than not they're having some in-depth conversation about rappers or cars or shamelessly gossiping about the swimmers they both know and Michael just follows Ryan into the bedroom and stands next to him while they brush their teeth and then the conversation continues as they strip to shorts and climb into either side of their bed.

But it's still Ryan's bed.

One night while they’re making dinner Ryan presses against Michael’s back to reach around and snag a piece of chicken from the stir fry and Michael goes so hard so fast he has to brace himself against the counter. Ryan laughs at him and makes a comment about not being able to handle the heat and Michael laughs along and tries not to think about the kind of heat he’s having a hard time handling.

They don't spend every night together collapsed on the couch with video game controllers in hand. Some nights Ryan wants to go out, wants to blow off steam, he's young, he's hot and he'd like to take advantage of those facts. He always invites Michael, and Michael always says no.

Sometimes on those nights Ryan doesn't come home. Some nights he comes home long after Michael is restlessly asleep, the garage door opening rouses the dogs and their clicking nails slide across the tile floors while he kicks his shoes off next to the door and grabs a Gatorade from the fridge. He comes to bed smelling like sweat and sex and Michael makes a point not to ask where he's been.

When Ryan is flying around the country doing interviews and trying to figure out if he's going to be the next Bachelor Michael eats nachos for dinner every night for a week, runs too far and too fast in the Florida sun and comes home and collapses on the couch with a pile of dogs and whatever movie he finds on HBO.

These routines hold true for nearly 2 months. Somehow the days slip into weeks and suddenly he's not really sure what he's doing or how he got here but it seems like maybe he's moved to Florida without really knowing it. His mom has gotten tired of picking up his mail and signed him up for mail forwarding, his clothes hang in the closet in the guest room [but he still doesn't sleep well without Ryan's ankle pressed against his] and when Ryan goes to the grocery store he buys Michael's favorite cereal and the cinnamon bread they both like without him having to ask.

 

* * *

He goes home for a weekend, because otherwise he's pretty sure his mom is going to fly to Florida and he's not prepared for the questions when she sees just how easily he and Ryan have managed to combine their lives.

Ryan's in New York so Devon comes over to watch the house and the dogs and play video games and eat all their food and use all the hot water he possibly can. He looks at Michael funny when he mentions that he made up the guest room and Michael is thankful that he made all the beds before Devon showed up because it's less obvious that there are two people sharing Ryan's King.

His mom is happy to see him and the kids miss him and his sisters both hug him and fill him in on all the gossip the way only sisters can. There's food and cutthroat games of Old Maid and Go Fish and a trip to the aquarium as a family. And not one single mention of Megan, or Michael's choice to sleep in his childhood bedroom instead of his mostly empty condo or the fact that apparently he's living in Florida with Ryan Lochte and also maybe is having a sexual identity crisis.

His mom hugs him tight when he leaves but it’s not until he steps off the plane in the G-spot that he finally feels like he can breathe.

 

* * *

Allison flies down for a long weekend and drags them both out. Michael pouts and stomps his feet and she looks at him fondly and tells him to stop being an asshole because she flew all the way down here and god forbid she see nothing but their 2 ugly faces, the dogs and the inside of Ryan's house.

They go out for conveyor belt sushi and Michael and Ryan make towers out of their empty plates and finish each others sentences without trying and Allie looks at them both with such a deep fondness that Michael wonders how he ever goes any period of time without a heavy dose of Schmitty in his life.

She smiles and laughs and knocks a shoulder into Ryan and tucks herself under his arm while they walk and wraps her arms around Michael's stomach while they stand on a corner deciding what to do next and they talk about times and swimming and goals and the night in London when all the gossip sites mistook Ryan's sister Megan for an unidentified redhead and wrote terribly scandalous things about sex in the Olympic Village only to find out that she was his sister.

They meet up with Devon and some random Gator swimmers and some other people Michael knows are Ryan's friends and probably his friends too, but have been conspicuously missing during his 2 month exile with only the dogs and Ryan for company.

It's at a bar that night when Michael discovers that Ryan’s taste in sexual partners is more fluid than he had originally thought. Michael's stomach twists a little bit while Ryan slides his fingers into some unknown guy's back pockets on the dance floor and pulls him in tight.

He slams a shot of Bacardi 151 and savors the burn before grabbing his Whiskey and Coke and allowing himself to be dragged onto the dance floor by Allie to wave his awkward limbs in the air like he just don't care.

Ryan's in the corner crowding the same guy against the wall. They're making out now and Michael's completely distracted by Ryan's arms bracketing the smaller man's head, the shift of his shoulder muscles against soft cotton and the dip and tilt of his head as he bites at the guy's jaw.

Allison smacks his hip and he turns back to focus on her. She's blessedly not figured out what he's looking at and is busy talking about how she's happy he came out with them and how she misses him and classes at UGA and how proud she is that he managed to put on real pants.

"Hey," he protests, "I wear real pants."

"I have seen you on TMZ Michael Fred," she pokes at his chest, "wearing Ryan's raggy breakaways and buying strange combinations of food at the grocery store like Red Vines and coconut water and soy sauce."

"We wanted Thai food," Michael replied sheepishly, "and Ryan thought we could cook it." The night had ended in takeout, but not before they'd burned the bottom of Ryan's 2 best pans and laughed so hard that they'd cried.

"I want someone to create a website that only exists to examine the contents of your grocery cart," Allie grinned impishly and wrapped her arms around his waist again, "imagine the information I could glean if I knew what you were buying all the time."

"It usually isn't that exciting," Michael admits, "Ryan's trainer has like a nutritionist lady who makes menus and grocery lists for his athletes and we basically just buy double whatever she puts on the list for the week and a flat of Gatorade."

"Shut up," Allie knocks him in the stomach, "it could probably just be a twitter, like shit my dad says, but instead it could be some like shit Mikey eats, or grocery Mike, I'll think of it - just give me time."

"OK," Michael agrees distractedly, eyes tracking as Ryan moves across the dance floor alone, his mouth red and bitten and shirt only partly tucked into his shorts.

“Oh,” Allison traces the path of his eyes and her eyes light in recognition. “I didn’t know it was like that.”

“It isn’t,” Michael replies shortly, “it’s the same as it always was.”

“Oh-kay,” Allison’s voice is surprised as he leads her back toward the table resting a hand against the small of her back as he guides her through the crowd.

They play drunk Mario Kart when they get home and Ryan pulls off his shirt and waves it around his head when he wins and there's a perfect set of teeth marks against the tan skin of his neck and Michael flushes so hard and so hot he has to excuse himself to the bathroom and take deep breaths until he can get his body under control.

He probably should have seen it coming. He isn't stupid - he tells himself this at night when he can't sleep - they've lived together for months, they've been best friends for years, yet he still can't figure out when his feelings shifted from Ryan being someone he always wanted to be around to wanting to shove his tongue straight down Ryan's throat.

It takes him 9 days, 45 miles on the treadmill and 2 whispered phone calls with Allison to admit that he isn't freaked out that Ryan likes guys, he's freaked out that they've been friends for a decade and he's never known it before. He keeps a secret even from Allie that he's pretty sure that either means he's been a terrible friend all these years or Ryan really didn't want him to know. Most of all he keeps secret that he's not sure he doesn't want to be the guy Ryan likes.

He's distracted for days. The temperature in Gainesville is approaching the surface of the sun and Ryan dedicates himself to lounging in as few clothes as possible and Michael can't figure out what he's supposed to do when all that golden skin is on display and his body is reacting and every article of clothing he wants to wear points out just how his body is reacting.

Ryan can't stop asking him if he's OK and to be honest at this point he doesn't know the answer. He mumbles answers that don't mean anything and doesn't sleep at night. Ryan's eyes are weary with concern and Michael's eyes are heavy with sleeplessness. He spends his nights trying to figure out how you decide out if risk is worth it when it could mean everything you've ever wanted but it could also mean losing the best friend you've ever had.

 

* * *

Kyle is not Michael's favorite of Ryan’s friends. Kyle is a symbol of the friends that Ryan has that Michael doesn't. Kyle is a forever friend. Michael's life is a little lacking in that department.

This is a problem because in the absence of Michael, Kyle is Ryan’s best friend. And that is precisely why Kyle is not Michael’s favorite.

This does not explain how Michael ends up getting high with Kyle on a Wednesday when Ryan is in LA.

Michael's been smoking a lot since his exodus to Florida. He likes the way it makes him feel. Alcohol makes Michael honest before it makes him forget, weed makes him too relaxed to remember. The weed makes him silently thankful for Ryan's complete disregard for wearing shirts - alcohol makes him bite his tongue to keep from asking if he can lick Ryan's Olympic rings tattoo.

Kyle shows up and Michael's smoking on the patio. And somehow that turns into sharing a bowl and watching the pool water shift against the lights and the dogs chasing flies around the patio while Michael holds the smoke deep in his chest and Kyle chokes out a laugh.

Unfortunately it turns out that the combination of the growing darkness and chemical stimulation makes Kyle honest. And Kyle has a lot to say about Michael's current undefined residency in Ryan's house.

"Listen Mike. I'm not sure what you're doing here. I've tried to figure it out and I can't fucking figure you out. But I have something to say. And here it is," Kyle draws a deep breath and even with no smoke in his lungs Michael can't seem to keep from holding his, "you can stay here and be happy with your Brady Bunch of dogs and your retired life. But remember this. Ryan has goals and plans and a life in the pool that he's trying to lead outside your shadow," and well, Kyle’s apparently not going to be pulling any punches.

Michael sputters, chokes on the lingering smoke in the air and ducks his head between his legs.

"I'm not saying he would ever say that out loud, let alone think it." Kyle continues, undeterred, "but I'm saying it's there. His family has given up a lot for him to get to where he is and don't think that that doesn't weigh on him."

"You have it pretty good now, a couple weekend things here and there, a couple of appearances and you're good to go. You don't have to worry about the pool anymore. But he's doing everything you're doing and still hitting weights and the pool twice a day. Try and remember that while you're lounging here, smoking up on the patio and playing house."

Kyle pauses to wait for Michael’s response, but he can’t force anything past the lump in his throat.

"And remember this," Kyle puts his hands on his knees and stands up, "Ryan and I have been friends since we were 9, if you fuck him up, I will fuck you up, it doesn't matter to me where the fuck your name falls in the history books."

It's not until Kyle's car has pulled out of the driveway that Michael realizes that he hadn't said a word since gesturing toward Kyle with the bowl and flashing him half a smile.

 

* * *

Michael’s mom tries to convince him he needs to start dating again. He loves his mom and he wants her to be happy and he knows that in order for her to be happy he needs to be happy. And damn if that isn’t a twisted web of dependency that he’d rather not think about.

He finally gets her to stop asking one night when he lets his guard down and confesses that he’s not sure dating is worth it. He admits he’s not sure anyone anymore wants to be with him for him and wonders if anyone sees him and not his medal count.

His mom switches immediately from encouraging him to get out there and meet people to reminding him of the wonderful people in his life who love him exactly the way he is. And 3 days later she sends him a care package of photos of family and friends and a picture Taylor painted of how much she loves her Uncle Mike.

 

* * *

The date that Michael categorizes as "worth it" it is Allie. They manage to be in the same city once every few months and he savors the time with someone who he doesn't have to pretend with. Allie has seen him grumpy in the morning and ecstatic on the medal stand. She's seen him happy and sad and every other emotion in between. And she still loves him just as much.

"So how are classes?"

"How's Ryan," she pushes right to the point.

"He's good. He's exactly the same as he's ever been."

"He's been getting you out of the house more," she winks and drags an onion ring through the mustard on her plate. "I know this because I saw you in TMZ and you weren't grocery shopping, you were wearing matching Burger King crowns and holding shot glasses."

"Still holding out hope for the famous Phelps purchases food website, huh," he grins the crooked smile, the smile that isn't for TV cameras or interviewers, the smile that's just for friends.

"I also saw pictures of you dressed in a tragic, faded Gators t-shirt, that is decidedly NOT YOURS Michael Fred, buying coffee creamer and fudgecicles, so don't tell me that my secret website plan isn't going to work,"

Michael grins and tucks her under his arm when they leave the restaurant and laughs hysterically 3 days later when this time TMZ prints pictures of them together and suggests that they have a budding romance.

 

* * *

In Gainesville Michael doesn't collapse into Ryan's bed and pass out anymore, though he fakes it. He can feel Ryan's warmth sprawling across the bed and visualizes miles and miles of dolphin kicks and the welcome quiet solitude that comes from underwater. He imagines acres dark and peaceful water and doesn't think about what it means, as long as it means he manages to keep his hands to himself for another night.

Now that they're going out more they're also being photographed together more and Michael's agent keeps suggesting paths meant to put distance between he and Ryan.  He can't make himself choose any of them. His friendship with Ryan is the only thing right now that bridges the gap between the person he used to be and the person he is now and doesn't require anything in return. Michael savors quiet walks early in the morning with the dogs and intense conversations about turns and strokes that lead to demonstrations in the pool.

Sometimes in interviews and at appearances he gets asked about the last time he swam and he always deflects. Because someone is sure to kill him if he reveals just how often he and Ryan’s late night conversations translate into jumping in the pool in gym shorts and counting strokes and pointing toes and pushing off the slippery plastic pool wall as hard as they can.

As has often been the case he's exactly who he wants to be when he's with Ryan. Except for the piece that wonders if who he wants to be to Ryan is something completely different.

 

* * *

He calls Hilary on a Tuesday night, because he isn't home right now and that means he's missed a number of Sunday dinners and hasn't been there for game night the last few times.

They talk lightly about life, about the people who weave in and out of their circle and are forever intertwined in their lives. She entertains him with stories and he slides down the floor in the kitchen and tucks his toes under the counter on the island.

The conversation drifts from subject to subject until they're both quiet, just shared breathing and the quiet hum of the running dishwasher.

"Michael," over Ryan's running Madden commentary from the next room he can hear her draw a deep breath, "I know that there are a lot of people telling you who you need to be and where you need to go."

"It's always been that way Hil," he rubs a hand over his eyes, waiting for another discussion about endorsements he should take and decisions he should be making.

"I know," she draws the deep breath again, "but I wonder if since London you've felt a little lost. And when I wonder about that I think maybe," the deep breath she draws this time is shaky, "maybe, I don't tell you enough how much I love you just the way you are."

He draws a shaky breath in return, because he does feel a little lost, but he's never felt that way where his family is concerned.

"I just want you to know," she charges on, "that I love you. I don't love Michael the Olympian or the poker player or the gold medalist or the swimmer or the Head and Shoulders spokesman. I love you and I want you to do whatever makes you happy," she pauses and this time he pulls his legs toward his chest and draws a shaky breath, because he can't say he hasn't been wondering when this conversation was going to happen, "with whoever makes you happy."

His heart stops.

"That," he pauses, "isn't exactly where I was expecting this conversation to go Hil."

"I know," her laughter sparkles across the phone line and he's suddenly struck with a wave of homesickness so deep he has to rest his head against his knees until the weight on his heart passes, "I figured I'd hit you where you weren't expecting it because there are so many other things people are saying to you. I figured you were managing to keep this one buried."

"It's not quite that easy,"

"It's as easy as you want it to be," she counters.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he pleads.

"Life isn't about knowing what you're doing Michael," he can hear the smile in her voice, the underlying challenge, the famous Phelps stubbornness "if you knew all the answers before you even asked the question what's the point in asking the question."

"I like to know that I've done everything I can to achieve the result I want,"

"That's all well and good in the pool brother-of-mine," she teases, "but life is a little less black and white than that."

"I don't like surprises," he grumbles.

"That sucks," she chirps back. "Should probably move home then. No surprises there so you’ll be safe."

While he's trying to process that statement her call waiting beeps and he knows he's off the hook for now.

"Go take care of that," he smiles brightly, knowing she'll hear it over the phone.

"Don't think this is over," she's impatient now with him and whoever's waiting on the other line.

"Oh trust me; I can't imagine for a moment that any of the women who surround me are going to give up telling me what to do with my life."

"We do it because we love you, and don't forget it."

"Thanks Hil," the smile is quiet now, but more genuine.

"Love your face little brother,"

"Back atcha,"

He presses End on his phone and wraps his arms around his knees.

 

* * *

The problem with being in love with someone who is your best friend, and also happens to be the friendliest, handsiest, give you the shirt of his back-iest person, is this. You end up doing things like walking red carpets together while wearing a white t-shirt under your purple button-down that is decidedly not yours.

Michael spends a lot of time considering this while answering interview questions at the opening of . . . something, maybe the 3D version of Finding Nemo? Michael's pretty sure the movie has something to do with either swimming or fish. He's decidedly distracted from the movie content however because Ryan keeps hijacking his interviews and pressing his body against Michael's back and resting his giant warm hand under the line of Michael's suit jacket when he leans in to answer questions about the pool and his dog and the fact that as it turns out you can't train to be an Olympic champion while simultaneously being a reality TV star.

Michael's brain flashes momentarily to Peter somewhere in the depths of Octagon slamming his head against the wall when Ryan uses the word "bro-tastic" completely unironically in a sentence about the pasta Michael made 3 nights ago and to be totally honest, he can't help but grin.

They finally make it into the safety of the movie theater and in the comforting darkness Michael tries to stretch his legs and tries to make a little bit of space in the pants that are slightly tighter than intended through the crotch region.

The movie is funny. Or maybe Ryan is funny. As time goes by Michael finds that it's harder for him to separate situations and experiences that are fun and fun that happens because he's with Ryan.

He expects Ryan to want to go out afterwards. The night is young, he's young, he's dressed up and Michael expects to go home alone to three dogs and an empty house. So he's surprised when Ryan climbs into the town car behind him. When they get home Ryan charges upstairs to change into a pair of loose shorts and comes back down shirtless and starts digging through the fridge.

"Wanna skinny dip?"

"I don't think it counts as skinny dipping when it's your backyard Ryan," Michael slips off his jacket, boosts himself on the counter and stretches his legs across to the island.

"Why?" Ryan leans against the opposite side with half a jar of chocolate frosting and fishes a spoon out of the drawer, "seriously Mike you're still naked and swimming, not matter whose backyard it is."

“Isn’t the fun of skinny dipping the potential of being caught?” Michael pulls his shirt from his pants and unbuttons it till it hangs loosely at his sides.

“The fun of skinny dipping,” Ryan gestures with the frosting, “is being naked in water.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Michael argues good-naturedly.

“I can prove it,” Ryan shoves the spoon into his mouth.

“I doubt that,” Michael pulls off his socks and chucks them through the door into the laundry room.

"I will race you, 4 laps of your chosen stroke, right now,"

"And," Michael grins, curling his toes against the edge of the counter, he knows what's coming next but half the fun is letting Ryan get there himself.

"Naked," Ryan scoops out a large spoonful of frosting and pops it in his mouth.

"Butterfly," Michael chooses instantly and imagines Ryan’s naked body cutting through the frenzy of water that accompanies it.

"6 laps,"

"Totally a Lochte-move, change the rules once you know what the stakes are,"

"Dude, it's your best stroke, I need to give myself a chance that I'm in better shape than you are,"

"2 underwater kicks per turn, I don't need any freaking dolphin kicking the length of the pool to compete with,"

"Loser takes all the dogs to the vet," Michael winces at that, they're both going to be out of town for 3 weeks, and awesome as Devon is about watching the dogs he is actually going to be out of town too, so all the dogs needs shots before they go to the kennel.

"Let's get it," Ryan shucks his shorts in the middle of the kitchen floor and dances into the backyard.

The problem with naked racing in the backyard, besides the obvious being naked with the guy you’d like to be naked with for other reasons. Is that when the race is close, which of course it is between the two of them, there's no judge, no scoreboard, no electronic timing to tell them who the victor is.

So they hit the wall at almost the same time and as soon as Michael shakes the water out of his eyes Ryan's laughing and arguing and Michael's gesturing and splashing and the dogs are riled by all the water and the shouting.

They retire to the hot tub for without deciding a winner and the clear views of Ryan’s bare ass means Michael has never been happier for burned out hot tub lights and water cloudy from jets agitation.

"We should sit in the hot tub every night," Ryan stretches into the corner and rests an arm against the lip of the hot tub.

"When we sit in the hot tub one of us falls asleep later playing Halo and Cullen sends pissy text messages about what being on a team means,"

"Cullen's a bitch," Ryan gazes up at the sky, "and when we sit in the hot tub it makes you fall asleep instead of laying awake for hours and it makes the knot in my shoulder go away."

Michael doesn’t have an answer for that.

"It's a good thing we changed the filter, I think Devon had sex in the pool the last time we had a party," Ryan says it casually, like Michael needs another reason to think about fucking in this hot tub, fucking Ryan, who is currently naked and less than 4 feet away from him, in this hot tub.

"I think that only happens in porn,” Michael swallows thickly and tries to turn off his imagination, "I don't think you're supposed to have sex in water, it does things to girls."

"Yes," Ryan turns his head and grins slowly, "good things to girls,"

"Didn't someone get their dick stuck in a hot tub jet?" Michael's desperate to change the subject. "Or maybe that was what happened in porn to make me think you shouldn't have sex in hot tubs."

"I think that means you shouldn't have sex WITH hot tubs," Ryan's grin is all sex now, "And dude, no matter what you've heard RedTube is not life,"

The porn discussion is blessedly interrupted by the trill of the house phone. Which means one of two things, Erica calling to tell Ryan that he needs to keep his mouth shut on red carpets, or Ryan's mom calling to tell him that he should have worn the blue shirt instead of the green.

"I will give you a million dollars to answer my phone right now,"

"Speedo gave me a million dollars already, sorry,"

"MP, people don't tell you this often enough, you're an assface," Ryan grins to soften the insult and shoves his way out of the hot tub in a streaming flash of wet and tan nakedness.

Michael stays in the hot tub while Ryan answers his phone, covertly watching the shift and flex of his ass as he wanders into the house and trying not to think about his newly discovered hobby of watching blowjob videos and picturing his lips on Ryan’s dick and his hands sliding around Ryan's ass.

He'd expected to be freaked out by gay porn, had waited until Ryan was out of town and it was dark and closed the curtains and practically reformatted his laptop to destroy the evidence when he was done. But instead of freaked out he'd thought about it and thought about it until he was contorting his body to slide fingers where he never imaged fingers would find themselves and twisting and turning and suddenly and unexpectedly coming so hard he had laid on the couch for almost 40 minutes catching his breath.

It isn't a stretch to swap Ryan into the position of the nameless and faceless that have had starring roles in his fantasies for years. He's as familiar with Ryan's body as he is with his own, knows the planes and colors and hidden secrets from years of locker rooms and deck changes. Living with Ryan has added a new dimension to his knowledge, now he knows intimately what Ryan smells like first thing in the morning and post practice, and how Ryan's eyes are hazy when he first wakes up and sharply clear late into the night.

All this information makes the swap too easy, he can imagine Ryan's face in any scenario his imagination, or let's be honest - the internet, can conjure up. So now he's constantly ducking into bathrooms and hiding behind counter tops and feeling like a 12 year old that’s just discovered just exactly what he can do with his dick.

"C'mon dude, you'll turn into a prune," Ryan tosses a towel onto the edge of the hot tub and wanders over to turn off the pool lights, "Mom says we looked good on the red carpet, but next time we should color coordinate our outfits, I told her despite what she reads on the internet you aren't gay."

"Umm yea," Michael swallows, wrapping the towel loosely around his waist hoping the folds of cotton will hide the semi he's rocking because Ryan was naked, and said RedTube and now all he can think of is porn.

"Put some shorts on and let's go, our friends inside the Xbox won't wait forever and no naked asses on the couch."

Michael follows slowly behind, he's going to be the one to fall asleep during Halo tonight and he can't figure out how his life is quite this awesome. Despite the fact that everything is fucked up and he's in love with his best friend and his best friend is wandering around naked all the time his life is still pretty great. He gets to eat good food and run and travel and never have to really work again and hang out every night with a whole pile of dogs and the person who makes him happiest in the world.

Even without the love, Michael's pretty sure some people wait their entire lives to have this.

 

* * *

They're in Vegas, it's a celebration. He's pretty sure anyway. Life with Ryan is sometimes one giant celebration. But it’s early January and he’s been home for a week to see the family for Christmas and then flown straight to Vegas. Allie is there and guys he's swam with for years and some divers he recognizes from the pool and a bunch of other people he tangentially recognizes, so it’s probably a celebration.

He ends up leaning against a table with Cullen and Nathan and some guy he doesn’t know named Andrew and a bunch of blue Jell-O shots in the shape of fish.

"Remember when you were the good one," Cullen knocks a shoulder against Michael and slides an alcoholic fish down his throat.

"I was never the good one," Michael tries to decide if chewing Jell-O shots is a good idea. "There is actual photographic evidence of me not being the good one."

Andrew is tall and tan with hair cropped short against his head and a UCLA t-shirt on and he laughs quietly while they watch Cullen hold 2 fish by their tails and drop them straight down his throat. Michael doesn't know if Andrew swims, he has the build for it and he's hanging out with a bunch of guys who have pool water running through their veins. So odds are in his favor.

But he isn't going to ask. He's going to pop some alcoholic fish pieces in his mouth and scan the room for tan skin, blonde hair and a navy polo shirt that he knows he packed in his suitcase that came from Baltimore and yet has somehow found its way onto Ryan’s person.

When he sees Ryan surrounded by people vying for his attention Michael grabs a couple more fish and lets Allie drag him onto the dance floor.

"My limbs are seriously not designed for this Allie," he groans as he trips and steps on her feet.

"The next one will be a slow song and then you can bail," she grins, yanking his hips with nimble fingers threaded through belt loops.

"I don't know what makes you think slow will be any better," he laughs and spins her out and back in letting the rhythm settle in his slightly soggy bones.

"We can sway," she leans back to meet his eyes. “It’ll be just like junior high.”

"I didn't dance in junior high,"

"Stop trying to hide behind a lifetime of social awkwardness Michael Phelps," she turned in his arms and her eyes were startlingly serious. "You're with a huge group of people who love you just the way you are. There's no time for self-flagellation."

"Sorry," he tucks his face against her hair and manages to sway with the basic beat of the song. "I miss you Al," he admits, breathing the smell of apricot shampoo and underlying chlorine.

"I'm right where I've always been," she grins up at him, "just in Georgia instead of Maryland and going to classes instead of living at the pool."

"The same but different huh," Michael quirks a grin and looks down at her. "I can probably work with that."

“If I were you I’d translate that into all areas of your life,” Allie mutters in his ear and yet again one of the women in his life has stunned him into silence.

"Thanks for the dance," she squeezes his hands and lifts on tiptoes to kiss his cheek before she disappears into the crowd.

Later, much later probably, Michael's coasting on more fish shots and beer in between and lost in the sea of people on the dance floor. He's not entirely sure how he found himself back here, he knows there was tequila with Ryan at one point and then Ryan was pulled away and there was more tequila with Nathan and Andrew who he now knows is an Accounting major but remains a swimming mystery.

Michael lets the alcohol do the dancing and shrugs a grin when Allison dances by with Cullen. The crowd presses tightly around him and his limbs loosen with the knowledge that people are pressed against him from all angles so no one can see that he's just a big dork on the dance floor.

People press closer and a warm hand slides across his shoulder and down his arm before resting wide and flat against his side. The body follows and presses close behind him. The body is tall and lean and hard and male.

"Hey," the voice ducks low against his neck and Michael unconsciously lets his body fall back into the strong torso. But it turns out it isn't anyone he expects. It isn't Nathan or Cullen or even Ryan pulling his body back, not any of them whose dick is pressing tight against the crease in Michael's thigh. It's Andrew.

Michael tenses for a moment before his body relaxes again. Andrew is warm and solid and the Jell-O shots are a jiggly cushion of decision-making haze. Andrew's hand slides a little lower, teasing the waistband of the khaki shorts Michael isn't even sure belong to him, testing the limits Michael knows he has to set.

"Wait," Andrew's hand stops and his head drops against Michael's shoulder. "Why doesn't this feel like a bad idea?"

"It's just dancing," Andrew's breath tickles the fine hairs on the back of Michael's neck and fuck it, Michael has slept platonically in the same bed as the boy he's in love with for months. He's earned this bad idea.

Michael grinds back against Andrew and Andrew slides their bodies gently together. Michael knows he'll regret this tomorrow, that he'll have earned the hangover he’s hurtling toward. But he's not under any illusions of where this is going with Andrew; he isn't looking for forever, he's just happy to feel wanted.

Andrew's hand slides down and tugs on his belt loops and Michael flashes back to Allie using the same move and instead of feeling silly and out of place he feels hot and heavy and like he doesn't want the feeling to stop. Andrew's hand pushes up and onto warm, bare skin and then it just stays there, guiding hips and resting still and hot. Michael's eyes drift shut and he's unconsciously pushing back into Andrew's body until the rumble of a groan shakes against his back.

"Hey," Ryan's voice is sharp and cuts through the warm haze of alcohol, dancing and hip hop.

Michael fists a hand in Ryan's polo and pulls him closer until he can rest his head against Ryan's collarbone and feel the thump of bass running through his body. Ryan's smell fills his senses, the cologne and chlorine and something that's just Ryan and means comfort and safety and just plain old Mike and Ryan and it makes him think of Halo and shared dinners and racing in the pool. He's so warm and so happy that they're here and he loves Vegas and he loves Ryan and, shit, he said at least some of that out loud.

"Dude," Ryan tips his head back and peers into his eyes and Michael's annoyed. If he had another minute he probably could have justified sinking his teeth into the tan piece of skin revealed by the v of Ryan's collar and his brain is decidedly curious about learning how most of Ryan’s body tastes. "Dude, did someone give you something?"

"Tequila," Andrew supplied helpfully, not recognizing Ryan's fake smile, the smile that means he's developing an escape plan all while he's sucking you in with white teeth and the face of America's next great hope in the pool.

"And fish shots," Michael ducks his head again, because it's heavy and it's late and Ryan's here now.

Cullen and Nathan appear from somewhere in the bar that is significantly less crowded than Michael remembers and without much fanfare they're piled into the elevator and headed up to their suites.

It takes Ryan 3 tries to get the door open and Michael's laughing because Ryan is drunk too, and drunkenness loves company. Or maybe that's misery. But mostly Michael loves Ryan's company.

Ryan gets the door open and Michael follows him through. When he stops suddenly just inside Michael runs into his back and sort of just stops there, pressing his body and his still somewhat hard dick against Ryan’s back

"We can't," Ryan presses his body back against Michael’s against the door and ducks his head.

"Why," Michael tilts his head back against the door and tightens his hands into fists.

"Because you don't do that," Ryan turns to bang his head lightly against Michael's collarbone and presses his hands flat against the door.

Michael doesn’t answer. He only shifts slightly so Ryan's legs slot between his and heat crawls up his spine. His brain flashes for a minute to dancing like this with Allie. And all the feelings he didn't have.

Ryan's breath is long and shaky and Michael can’t wait anymore. He slides his hands around and tucks them into Ryan’s back pockets and pulls his body flush against him.

They stand there, pressed against each other for a minute, just breathing and then like a switch flipped it’s all greedy hands and grinding against each other and a rhythm that isn’t sweet and slow and gentle. Instead it’s fast and hungry and maybe just a little nasty.

That low steady thrum of need in the pit of his stomach that started with the long stretch of Ryan’s neck as they took shots and burned brighter when he was dancing with Andrew and has been building all day is now more sharply barbed and indescribable.

They don’t kiss but Ryan presses his mouth over Michael’s heart and his warm damp breath slides through cotton until Michael’s nipples tighten and his body feels like it’s all drawing together.

The perfect dirty rough slide evens out as they rut against each other. Michael feels his orgasm start in his shaking knees and Ryan’s voice against his shoulder pushes him over the edge. The low muttering of obscenities translates to the repeated mantra, “Come on, just like that, fuck, so fucking good, come on, just let go, Mike,” he sinks his teeth into Ryan's shoulder as it roars through him, mouth pressed against the wet spot of that damn navy polo while his fingers slide across the warm skin of Ryan's waist while Ryan shudders against him.

They should have talked. Michael knows that. He isn't a total idiot at relationships, despite appearances to the contrary. He doesn't jump into sex with random people and then pass out on a giant California King sized bed. The problem is that Michael figured out what he wanted, but he didn't plan for what was going to happen when he got what he wanted and he wasn’t prepared for the fact that his brain completely shuts down after an orgasm and all he wants is sleep.

"We’re not going to not talk about it Ry," Michael shouts from the bathroom the next morning.

"Are you sure?" In the mirror Michael watched Ryan roll over and tuck an arm under his head. "Because talking sucks in my experience."

"Dude, I don't like it any more than you do," Michael winced and dug through his duffle bag for socks, "but you're my best friend, and we're not going to freaking mess it up over orgasms."

"I'm going to get coffee,”

"Wait for me to put on pants and I'll go with dude," Ryan concedes

They find a table tucked in the back of the Starbucks just on the corner across from their hotel. Ryan stuffs his face with mini scones and Michael sips his coffee slowly hoping it will soothe the knots in his stomach and kick start his brain into figuring out how he can make this better.

Finally Ryan gives up.

"Sorry sucks, let's not be sorry anymore,"

"I didn't mean to accidentally move into you,"

"Mike, you're always welcome at my crib, you know that, mi casa, su casa, all the Spanish I know right there dude,"

"But still, it feels like maybe I stayed too long. Like I was intruding,"

"You," Ryan turns, his eyes serious for once as he so rarely is, "are always welcome in my house, in my pool, in my fucking life, you are my best friend, you are the person that makes me laugh and pushes me and I can be absolutely myself with you. You save me Mike; you make me, me every day."

"OK dude, all in," Michael draws a deep breath and says what he laid awake all night wondering, "Knowing all that, I don't understand why you don't want me," Michael sips his coffee and avoids eye contact.

The pause is long; Ryan arranges his remaining scones in patterns without making eye contact. When he does start talking his voice is rusty and quiet, "Fuck dude, you were wasted, and we're in Vegas, and everyone loves everyone and you haven't gotten laid in a hundred years and you aren't even gay and you don't want me and I can't keep my hands off you. That's pretty fucked up on my part."

"I want," his breath stutters and he can feel the shaking of his hands shaking the liquid that remains in his coffee cup, "I want."

Ryan doesn’t talk. He just stands up and walks toward the door, looking back occasionally to make sure Michael’s following.

"Okay," Ryan slides the keycard through the lock and pushes through the door.

"Okay?" Mike presses his back against the door and watches as Ryan paces just out of reach clenching and releasing his fists.

"Okay," Ryan draws a deep breath and stands still just out of reach. Frustrated Michael reaches out to grab his hip and pull him in. He meets Ryan's eyes for a beat and leans in to press their lips together.

Ryan groans a little at the touch and tilts his head, putting a little more pressure on Michael against the door and a little more pressure against his lips.

Michael lifts a hand to slide over the warm soft skin of Ryan's side and opens his mouth to taste Ryan's tongue, Ryan reaches up to thread fingers through his still-damp hair and pull Michael closer.

"Mike, fuck," Ryan groans dipping his head to run teeth along his sharp jaw, "wanted you."

Michael drew a sharp breath at the words, pulling Ryan closer and savoring the warmth of his body, the familiar smell that lingered on the pillows even when Ryan wasn't home.

"You wanted me?" Michael's heart beat faster, trying to reconcile the always familiar Ryan with the Ryan who was pulling him backwards toward the bed until the backs of his knees hit the edge and then with one yank pulling them both into a heap on the unmade bed.

"Of course I wanted you," Ryan rolls his head to the side so Michael can lick down his neck and suck on his sharp collarbone. "You're hot, and you're my best friend and you make me laugh and you like, understand me and what I've got going and I want to fucking bite your shoulders."

Michael whispers "fuck, fuck, fuck," when Ryan spreads his legs around his hips and finds his mouth again. Ryan's huge hands find his ass and slides him just slightly to the left until their dicks line up and then he's twitching against him and licking back into Ryan's mouth and this isn't gentle at all. This is moaning and arching and high noises that Michael will deny are coming out of his mouth.

"Off, off," Ryan's tugging at his t-shirt and he leans back enough to throw his t-shirt toward the corner and pulls Ryan up off the comforter enough to pull his off as well. And then it's skin on skin, warm, warm skin that he knows on sight and that now he's pressing against and running his hands across and then Ryan's sliding a hand under his shorts and his brain is well and truly shutting down.

"Pants too MP," Ryan shoves at him until he rolls off and Ryan stands to kick off his flip flops and pop the button on his shorts. And it takes a concerted effort for Michael to pay attention to his own shoes and shorts and not just lay there shirtless, propped on his elbows and watch the show. "Hurry your ass up," naked Ryan presses against him, "it's going to be worth it, just trust me," Michael catches his mouth as he slides his zipper down and Ryan's shoving a hand down to shove Michael's shorts toward the floor and muttering "trust me, trust me."

And then they're pressed together naked and Ryan's reaching down to wrap a hand around both of their dicks and Michael thought at some point this was going to get weird, that he was going to be surprised that there are 2 dicks in this equation, but instead he's lost in the slide of Ryan's dick against his and the new sensation of the body pressed against his being just as hard as his own.

Ryan topples them both back onto the bed and then they're stretched out all naked skin and hard dicks against each other and without thinking Michael's hooking a leg around Ryan and pulling him over and on top of him and their cocks are sliding against each other and Michael knows he's making a lot of embarrassing noises but seriously, he doesn't even care anymore.

"You close Mike," Ryan's lips move against the side of his neck, absently pressing kisses against bare skin and Michael nods pressing his head back against the pillow and trying not to thrash, "this is going to be so awesome Mike, come on, I want to see you face, I want to watch you come for me," and then Ryan's dropping his body tight against him and sealing their mouths together and that's all, that's seriously all Michael can handle at this moment and he's coming between their bodies warm and slick and fucking finally.

Ryan whimpers and Michael shoves his tongue deeper in Ryan's throat and savors the feeling of Ryan's hard dick pressing into the hot, wet space between them and then Michael's' grabbing his hips again, the cut of those hips that has distracted him for the last year probably, if he's honest, and pressing his thumbs in the divots and guiding Ryan against him until Ryan arches against him and adds to the warm and wet spreading between them.

Minutes later Ryan tips over and curls against Michael’s side, the position reminiscent of all the nights they’ve shared a bed before. "You're pretty much perfect for me.” His voice is quiet, serious, the private Ryan versus the public, “you force me to be better and you love my family and you look like sex on a stick and I want to lick you."

"I know the feeling," Michael tucks his head against Ryan's neck and traces his fingers along the muscles he knows by sight and wants to learn by touch. "I'm a dickhead because maybe I moved in with you without really telling you and then somehow managed to fall in love with you and Jesus fucking Christ Ryan you're the only thing I want anymore.”


End file.
